Gone wrong. Gone off. Gone to
shit. Sardines. Milk. Tea. Splatter. Shatter. I'm getting. I've got. I like it
like a reverend. I live the coffee for the journey. I like the hand that is
constantly biting elephantine Argentineans. All the words and sprites. All that
laughing and belly-aching. The taxman is coming to be three hours old and, for
the next three hours, he will show you what it means to be a picturesque
Welshman who just happens to be next of kin for your great aunt. Down the
river, he cometh. He notes and notifies the wildlife from straight off the top
of his head like casting off of structured quid.
]]
This is Shropshire, chirp loudly
and at great risk. The errands of Snowdonia cannot be shelled nor can the
simple splicing of honeymoons and tepid feather storms. Who. Doesn't. Like.
The. Nineteen. Sixties. Anyway?
[[
Can you help yourself from
forgetting yourself, can you can the crossword and yank up the drawbridge
before the expectants appear for their pauper prices? The wound leaves scars
and threaded bobbins to charm freedom from the semen if cinnamon commonality.
This is the twitch. That, over there, is the short walk up lentil avenue. We do
not capitalise there, not while the chumps leave their stuff in the
undergrowth. It is truly sick, a nuclear waterfall that trips up over the
tongue and lips and then the teat just for effective cancellation. The range of
the mark is as broad as its target, as nailed on as a tack and as tacked on as
anal. The wandering safety will be shot like lots and made purple with
concentration and certainly not lavender so please stop thinking about it,
you're interfering with our country bumpkin ways. The rosy water. You see it?
The rosy water. You do see it.
]]]
Limestone kilns and signature
spreads = a haven for nature. Holding ten four plus new beds = creative
overheads. Speculum and Importance and Ecology = Canapés. The proof of proving
dough will challenge too much of the man for his beekeeping habit. This is the
life that every kernel will come back up on some peace of mind like a world
left behind by some pigeons of beforehand trains. Midnight misinformation. The
seeing eye dogs will be beside the yellow numerology, beside itself like his
and hers and their towel racks and the wide array of laundered money kept
there.
[[[
Dreams don't always come true
for burnt up husks. Eve.
]]]]
One-way tickets are flung
straight off of geological gaps to take the rhyme as seriously as possible
without paying the cost that most dating services charge with blind
superiority. They've already left. The coast is golden and the waves are
silver. Isles know what to do with the package holidaymakers that type up their
own reviews on their own websites alongside their storage of dusters and
hernias caused by those very dusters.
[[[[
Help me out here. Hem my
jackets. Teach me to walk. Make.
No comments:
Post a Comment